Shattered Glass
by Gypsygrrl
Summary: The fragile glass that was his world shatters, and Shuuhei just wants to escape the nightmare that stalks him.


_A/N: This is a companion piece to Broken, told from Shuuhei's POV. It contains Shuuhei's side of the story, then continues where Broken left off. Just a warning, this is dark—like, really dark. I hope you enjoy it, and comments are love. And again, please no flames._

He was fucked up—but then again, he already knew that.

Intellectually, he knew that he wasn't completely at fault, not entirely; Aizen and Ichimaru and Tousen (his captain, gods his fucking, goddamned _captain!)_ had molded and shaped him according to their whims—had taken a child alone in the world and wanting—no, _needing_—guidance and approval and a whole host of other things that had been awaked the day he had been saved from a hungry Hollow by a silver-haired (not-quite angel, not-quite devil) Gotei captain, and used it to their own purposes. The problem with intellect, however, was that it was so easily silenced by the louder, jeering voice in his head that reminded him of how he had sobbed and begged beneath them, pleading for '_more, harder, gods, please don't stop!' _as his body had responded to each and every touch, each and every little game, each and every clever little torture they had inflicted upon him, and he could no more ignore that voice than he could ignore the hungry ache that would send him from his quarters and into the higher districts of Rukongai in search of relief.

_He cried out behind the gag filling his mouth as the whip laced bright fire across his back, straining against the manacles locked tight around his wrists to hold him up, hurting but yet still desperate for more, for harder, for the agony to take him to that place where nothing else mattered and his head was no longer filled with thoughts of his division or the men who looked to him for direction and guidance and command or the three men who had betrayed not only Soul Society but the naïve toy he had become in their hands._

He'd thought he'd found freedom when they had left; no more Ichimaru slipping into his quarters late at night, with his silver hair (the wrong shade of silver, and too long, too spider-spun silk) and wide, wide grin that masked the thirst for another's pain and pleasure and utter surrender; no more beautifully-worded invitations for "tea" written on thick, heavy paper that were code for "_I want you bound and helpless and weeping at my feet, and I know you cannot and will not deny me what I desire"_ from Aizen-taicho; no more tainting his own captain with the sickness poisoning his soul, seeking out the blind man's quarters late in the night despite the litany of vitriol Kazeshini spewed in his head at his weakness and his own damning sense of shame at using the one man who had never judged him, the one who had offered him only gentle caresses and murmured words of praise when he moved within his fukutaicho's battered, aching body with such tenderness and care that he had been able to endure all the rest—never once realizing that it had all been a carefully woven trap and that his captain was no different from Aizen or Ichimaru.

_The chain around his neck bit deep, sharp-edged links slicing into tender, vulnerable flesh to spill bright crimson blood on the dirty floor where he knelt, but it only served to intensify the white-hot pleasure sliding down his spine as the faceless man behind him pounded into him roughly and without the slightest bit of care. His breathless moans had been silenced by the thick length of cock plunging down his throat, the man kneeling in front of him holding his mouth open with thick, dirty fingers, and the dizzying pleasure rose as he fought to breathe around each thrust, allowing himself to be used in any way they saw fit, just as he had been trained to do many years before. _

In the weeks following the betrayal, he had taken on the role of acting captain as well as his normal duties as the 9th's fukutaicho, but the added duty hadn't been a burden but a type of salvation. Each night he'd crawl into his bed too tired to think and would succumb to exhausted, dreamless slumber, and for a time he thought that he had managed to exorcise the demons that haunted him. He'd ignored Ukitake-taicho's concern that he was overworking himself, telling the sickly captain that he was fine, and it had been true—at least until the day he had unthinkingly offered to help his fellow fukutaicho clean out Ichimaru's office. Seeing the evidence of his shame clutched in the blond's long-fingered hands had sent his world tilting off kilter, and the small sense of peace he had managed to find had vanished like smoke. He hadn't been able to say anything—there had been nothing _to_ say—instead turning and leaving the office without a word, running from the horror he had seen in the depths of china-blue eyes and the knowledge that his secret had been exposed. It was only later—much later, lying awake in his bed too afraid to sleep for fear he would dream this time, no matter how exhausted he was—that he had realized there had been something else lurking in the younger man's eyes, something that was cold and calculating and very, very interested. Remembering that look, he had shivered despite the warmth of his bedchamber, burrowing deeper beneath the covers to warm his suddenly chilled body, but the cold came from inside him as need reawakened, slithering through him to twist with a sense of self loathing. Two weeks later, hollow-eyed and haunted, he had showed up on Kira's doorstep with a length of silk cord tucked inside the folds of his uniform and nausea knotting his stomach, and so had taken the first step back down the path of self-destruction.

_He panicked when the blindfold slipped over his eyes, fighting his restraints as his vision went black, but his bonds held and his struggles were in vain. His protests went unheard, muffled as they were by the thick plug that had been shoved in his mouth only seconds before, but even if he hadn't been gagged they wouldn't have listened. In the higher districts of Rukongai, shinigami were regarded with a dislike that bordered on near-hatred, and he'd sought out one of the lawless brothels where play was rough, hoping to satiate the need burning inside him. He hadn't even flinched when the suppressor was locked around his ankle, sealing off his reiatsu and Kazeshini's screeching howls of fury—a litany of abuse he'd long since grown used to over the decades and no longer paid no mind—giving himself over to them utterly. It no longer mattered _what_ they did to him. He just wanted escape._

He allowed Kira to use him however he wished—and the blond had proved himself every bit as rapacious as his former captain had been—and for a short time at least he was able to lose himself completely in the dizzying pleasure of being bound and tormented and roughly fucked by the younger man. Once he was untied, however, the despair and loathing and desperate need for escape would come crashing back, twisting through him till he was sick with it, and though his departure was always unhurried, the minute he reached the end of the street he would slide into shumpo and abandon all pretense that he was doing anything but fleeing—that room, Kira, and most importantly, himself. Locked inside the dubious sanctuary of his spartan quarters, he would void the meager contents of his stomach before scrubbing himself raw in the shower in a desperate, futile attempt to erase the latest stain on his soul while Kazeshini hurled abuse for the snow swirling heavily in his Inner World, swearing to himself 'never again'—but within days the cycle would start anew. He'd borne the consequences, thinking them outweighed by those precious few hours of escape Kira offered, and it had been alright…until suddenly it wasn't. Work piled up, training for the upcoming war with Aizen took precedence, and when he finally _had_ been able to get away, he'd found himself in bed with a Kira he didn't know—one that had treated him as if he were made of fragile glass that would shatter at the slightest touch—and couldn't respond to. After that night he had sought out the seedier districts of Rukongai, placing himself in the hands of hard-eyed strangers who only cared for his submission and in return gave him what he needed without question, his status as a shinigami ensuring their discretion.

_Pinned between the two men, he whimpered as they pressed inside him slowly, lowering him inch by inch until both were fully seated inside him and he was stretched well past the point of comfort. A rough hand stroked over his hair, smoothing it out of his face as another man approached, holding the base of his cock and bending it towards the shinigami's bruised mouth in a wordless demand that Shuuhei dared not disobey. He'd learned very quickly that these men had little patience and liked making him cry out in pain as well as pleasure, and even though he craved this kind of dark submission, not all bruises could be easily explained away as results of a spar. He'd tried that once, the first time they had marked his face up, telling a concerned Ukitake-soutaicho that he had been sparring with Kazeshini and that the spirit had gotten the best of him, only to have his zanpakuto screeching in his head for days, telling him he would tell Soutaicho the truth if he ever dared involve him in the sick, twisted mess he'd made of his life again, and the dark-haired acting captain knew he would do it too. His zanpakuto hated him that much._

_A sharp slap on his flank reminded him of what he was supposed to be doing, and he firmly shut his thoughts away, focusing on pleasuring the three men fucking him. The thin strip of leather fastened around the base of his own cock wouldn't be removed until they came, and they weren't above leaving him in a frustrated state for hours on end if they were unhappy with his performance. _

_Giving himself over to their hands, he let his mind go blank and drowned in the pleasure-pain sweeping through his body. _

His former captain dealt the final blow that shattered his fragile world irrevocably.

He'd made himself believe that Tousen had been duped by Aizen and Ichimaru, a victim of their plots rather than a true traitor, had stubbornly clung to a tiny thread of hope that his ex-captain would see the error of his ways and come back and everything would be alright, would be _better_.

He'd been a blind fool.

Tousen had been no different than Aizen and Ichimaru—in fact, he had been far worse. All those years he'd sought out his captain to soothe away the hurts inflicted at the hands of the other two men, had taken comfort in that smooth, mellow voice murmuring in his ear as big, warm hands gently caressed his bruised, battered flesh—it had all been a carefully crafted lie designed to lure his prey further into their trap, and the younger man had naively fallen into the snare. The pain of Suzumushi's blade cutting through his stomach was nothing compared to the pain that tore through him when his former captain had casually kicked him off the top of the building as if he were nothing more than a piece of refuse hardly worthy of his notice. But even that pain had been nothing compared to the agony of plunging his zanpakuto into the monstrous form of the Hollowfied ex-captain and calling out "_Reap, Kazeshini."_

He'd knelt beside the shattered remains of the man who had proven himself to be far crueler than Aizen and Ichimaru, the blood splattering his face and clothes cooling and growing sticky as battle raged all around him, but he was frozen, trapped by the yawning emptiness that left him hollow inside, threatened to consume him entirely, like a Hollow consumed its prey. Despite the cold winter sun shining in a too blue sky, his world had darkened to eternal twilight.

_Pain eclipsed pleasure, and he sobbed around his gag. In this dark room, time had lost all meaning as an endless stream of men came and went, using him and tossing him aside when they were done, leaving behind their own stains upon his body and soul that no amount of scrubbing would erase. He was tied and beaten, whipped and clamped, stuffed full of fake cocks and real. He knelt at their feet and took whatever they gave him, be it pain or pleasure, delicious perverted tortures that had him begging for more or the basest of rapes that left him sobbing and bleeding. It didn't matter._

_He was given food and drink, just enough that he wouldn't die, the worst of his injuries tended to by an old man who looked at him with pity even as he slipped two-three-four fingers deep inside his already abused hole and fucked him thoroughly. His back was laced with deep wounds that burned like fire when they let him sleep for a few hours, his body shook with deep wracking coughs as the damp crept into his lungs, the suppressor around his ankle preventing his body from healing itself. They tied him and abused him to their hearts' content, and he let them, even as he realized that eventually they would kill him. That had been the turning point—that and the night they held him down and forced his legs apart, pressing a glowing brand to the tender bruised skin of his inner thigh to mark him as a whore. His screams had filled the air—only to be cut off abruptly when the chain circling his neck was yanked tightly, nearly crushing his throat in the process of silencing him. _

_Lying alone in a pool of his own blood while their seed dried on his skin, wrung out and used up and so fucking exhausted the very thought of getting up seemed almost impossible, he realized that he couldn't do this anymore; no matter how hard he tried he couldn't erase the past, and dying in a windowless, filthy room in the 80 district of Rukongai would be letting Tousen and Aizen and Ichimaru win—and he was damned if he was going to let that happen. Using his sword to lever himself up off the floor, he waited for the dizziness to pass before limping heavily towards the thick wooden door, testing it with a shaking hand and breathing out a sigh of relief at finding it unlocked. Stupid of them, but then again, he really wasn't in any shape to be running anywhere. If it hadn't been for his sudden epiphany, he would still be lying on the cold floor and waiting for the next man who would come and use the broken shinigami toy that had fallen so neatly into their laps, waiting for them to finally kill him or for the courage to unsheathe his zanpakuto and end things himself, saving them the trouble. That was probably the only reason he still had Kazeshini, and at the moment he was grateful for their arrogance. Though he knew he was in no condition to fight, the sword helped him remain upright and moving, especially when confronted with a flight of stairs that seemed endless._

_It seemed an eternity before he reached the top of those stairs, winded and panting and trembling all over, his inner thighs slick with what could have been either semen or blood but was most likely a combination of the two—not that he was about to check. A teasing breath of fresh air ghosted across his flushed and sweaty cheek, drawing him towards a door that had been left ajar to admit the cool night breeze, and he forced himself to move faster, half afraid someone would appear and try to stop him. But no outcry came, and he stepped out into the deserted street, moving as quickly as he could in order to put some distance between himself and the brothel that had almost become his grave. The trickle of fluid running down his legs came faster now, and when he glanced down he saw immediately that it was blood, and far too much blood at that. A broken, rasping laugh spilled from his ruined throat as he realized his escape had sealed his fate—he was going to die out here in the middle of a deserted Rukon street. Strength waning, he sank to his knees in the snow, barely feeling the cold as his eyes slipped closed, sinking towards the welcome darkness that promised an end to all of his pain. Distantly he felt himself gathered in warm, strong arms and lifted, the scent of the sea all around him as Ukitake-soutaicho cradled him close._

"_Enough, Hisagi-kun. This had gone on long enough, and I refuse to watch you kill yourself any longer," the white haired-captain said in a quiet, authoritative voice, and Shuuhei wanted to tell him it was too late, that it was done and he was sorry, but he'd already used up his last reserves and no sound would come out. "Shhh—don't try to talk. We'll discuss this later."_

_Warm, heavy reiatsu enveloped him, sinking into his battered body to ease away the worst of the pain, and he relaxed more fully into the older man's arms as he slipped into unconsciousness. _


End file.
